


The Man in the Bowler Hat

by celluloidbroomcloset



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 08:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3562415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloidbroomcloset/pseuds/celluloidbroomcloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steed and Emma go out to dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man in the Bowler Hat

John Steed was not like other men. This Emma Peel understood from the moment she met him. Perhaps that was not quite accurate: at first he’d been rather obnoxious, with a cursory understanding of traffic laws. During John Mandeville’s wine-tasting, however, she grew intrigued by the dark, ruthlessly attractive man in the bowler hat. He reminded her of a Regency rake: that air of casual elegance punctuated by a hint of dissipation. He possessed undeniable charm and obvious taste, but he had an edge of concealment that fascinated her. She wanted to know what he concealed.

Now, sitting across from him after a delicious Italian dinner in a small bistro in Soho – one which she would never have found on her own – Emma determined that John Steed was an even greater enigma than she at first supposed. No one at Mandeville’s seemed to know what he did for a living. Man-about-town was the name that clung to him, but he did not seem one of those indolent playboys who lives off the proceeds of an ex-wife or a smart banker. He had more energy than that. He was not fabulously rich, but well off enough to buy bespoke suits at Savile Row, and cultivate a love of good wine, vintage cars and expensive women. Beneath the humor and the cultivated insouciance was something deeper and altogether more dangerous than a mere playboy.

For all her attempts to glean information from him throughout dinner, he did not rise to the bait. He was willing to talk about himself – his love of cars, horses, wine, food, travel. But he was unwilling to broach the topic of profession.

As the dessert wine came, Emma tried the direct approach.

“What is it exactly that you do, Mr. Steed?”

Steed smiled and tasted the wine before answering. 

“This and that,” he said.

He looked at her as though daring her to carry on, eyes sparkling in the half-light. A most disconcerting shade of grey, those eyes.

“You certainly seem to enjoy the good things in life,” she said, raising her wine glass. 

“I believe that one should enjoy life as much as possible. It’s too short not to." He paused for a beat. "I’m a civil servant.”

“For which department?”

“Ministry of Defense.”

Now she was getting somewhere. “I suppose it too much to think that you’re a minister.”

He laughed. “Nor a filing clerk.”

"A lawyer? Military?"

He shook his head at both. "Guess again."

She felt like she was being drawn into a game of twenty-questions. Very well, if that’s what he wanted to play. She steepled her fingers. 

“Too tall for an accountant,” she mused. 

“Are all accountants short?”

“In my experience. Besides, you don’t seem the sort of man to be tied to a desk.”

He flashed her a grin. “Depends on who does the tying.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not an archivist – too tan. A researcher?”

“Of sorts.”

“But not a scientist. You have a deplorable knowledge of chemistry.”

“Not all of us can be genius philanthropists, Mrs. Peel."

She snapped her fingers. “A field analyst!”

“Very close.”

“But not quite there?”

"Afraid not. Would you like a hint?”

“Please.”

“I’ve been known to import, but rarely export.”

She stared at him. Truth be told, she had little knowledge of what government positions were even available. She also found looking into his eyes increasingly distracting. They were almost slate colored at the moment, and flickered with amusement. Emma thought how easy it was to get lost in those eyes.

“You’ve stumped me, Mr. Steed,” she said, finally. 

“I’m surprised, Mrs. Peel. I thought you wouldn’t give up so easily.”

“Do you typically make a mystery of your profession?”

“Not always. Sometimes I lie.” He raised his glass. 

“Since we've reached an impasse, what other game shall we play?” she asked. 

“What other game would amuse you?”

“I’m open to suggestions, Mr. Steed.”

He looked at her for a long, alarmingly arousing moment. 

“You said you were interested in judo?” he asked.

“I study it, and karate.”

For a moment, she wondered if he wasn’t going to begin the usual male rigamorole about how such a lovely, such a delicate, such a charming young lady should not be wasting her time on masculine pursuits. She’d heard the comments, or something like them, for years, sometimes from men she did not even expect to be so traditional. 

John Steed, though, was not like other men.

“You must show me sometime."

Her eyebrows went up. “Show you?”

“Yes. I’ve been known to spar a bit myself. We might have a session.”

Emma looked him up and down. She wondered briefly what the immaculate suit concealed. He was tall, and carried his weight well; he was obviously fit, and he moved with an easy gracefulness that spoke of a dancer, or a swordsman. Did she just imagine how powerful his long legs might be? Or whether those blunt, utilitarian hands – hands that were just a bit too calloused for the man-about-town part – were capable of delicacy? If it was a come-on, it was an odd one, for he seemed quite serious. If it wasn’t …

"I confess that I didn't expect you to say that,” she said, quite honestly.

“You mean because I did not present you with a long, detailed description of why it’s inappropriate for a woman to practice martial arts, or because I didn’t smile indulgently and dismiss your interest?”

Emma felt her breath catch.

“Both, I suppose,” she said. “I cannot quite make you out."

He leaned towards her. "That makes two of us, Mrs. Peel."

They did not go home right away. It was a early yet and Steed suggested a drive. He drove a gorgeous, rather clunky vintage Bentley. Emma preferred sleek, stream-lined vehicles to the old-world elegance. Still, he handled it rather well, managing corners and curves like a practiced race car driver. They went down slick streets and into the country, where he could really ‘let her go,’ as he said.

The speed was exhilarating. The air whipped her hair about and rustled her skirts as the flashing lights of the city gave way to the clear runs and winding roads of the countryside. Beside her a grown man grinned like a little boy with a toy car. She found herself watching him as he handled the car – the placement of his hands on the wheel, the shift of his torso every time he turned a corner, the length of his legs in his pin-striped trousers…

Emma pulled her hair from her face. There was no way to ignore the electrical current that ran between them. She’d never been so attracted to a man, never imagined what his hands would feel like on her body, or considered the sensation of running her fingers through his thick mass of wavy hair. He was so disciplined, so controlled, but beneath all that was a man intensely passionate. That current threatened to shock them both if they got too close.

Eventually, he slowed down. Emma was uncertain where they were, nor did she much care. Steed pulled the car to a standstill on a bridge over a brook. Above them the breeze blew and the moon shown over quiet farmers’ fields. The water beneath babbled quietly. They were both silent.

“It’s a beautiful night,” Emma ventured, gazing at the stars.

“Very beautiful.”

She looked at him. “What now?”

“Well, we could stay here and look at the stars. Or we could drive back to town. Or…”

“Or what?”

His eyes met hers. He opened his mouth and closed it. Then, with almost resignation, he asked:

“Are you happy, Mrs. Peel?”

“Right now? Yes.”

“I mean in … life. In general.”

“As much as anyone else.”

“I can’t get over the idea of you … a woman of your energy, your intellect, wasting your time at a company that can run itself …”

Emma’s jaw tightened. She would cut off his next, predictable line at the source.

“It was my father’s company, Mr. Steed. I don’t consider it a waste of time. It's a difficult job, in fact. Not the sort of thing that just anyone can do.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“I might be a woman, but I am a very effective CEO. Some have even called me ruthless.”

“I’ve no doubt, but that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“I meant that you’re worth a great deal more than merely seeing that someone else's brain child runs smoothly.”

“You’ve known me a total of several hours, Mr. Steed; I don’t see how you can possibly know what I’m worth. My father left me Knight Industries because he trusted me. He knew I would not abandon it. I was twenty-one when I took over the company.”

“And six months later you were a widow,” he finished. 

A cold feeling spread over her. Her hands rolled into fists.

“How did you happen to recall that particular fact?”

“It’s well-known."

She shook her head. “You seem to know a great deal about me. That's the third little item in my biography you've dropped tonight.”

He was silent.

“What do you do for a living, John Steed?”

He pushed his hat back.

“This has gotten rather out of hand. I only meant that now Knight Industries is very solvent, financially, and there’s little that has to be done on a regular basis to keep it that way. As for your worth – any man worth his salt would know within five minutes of meeting you that you’re a rare woman of rare abilities, Mrs. Peel.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Steed; I’ve heard it all before. I’m not interested in yet another man trying to define me.”

“It is not flattery. It’s the facts as I see them. I’m not interested in defining you.”

This man spoke in riddles. She struck the seat.

“What are you interested in? I’ve been trying to figure that out all evening.”

“You. I’m interested in you.” He took a breath. “I don’t believe you’ve ever been challenged a day in your life, not with your company and not now. Well, I have a challenge for you, Mrs. Peel.”

He reached into his inner pocket and produced a card.

“If you’re interested in playing, call this number. Say that I gave it to you. You can make a choice from there.”

She took the card from him.

"This is the oddest proposition I've ever received," she said.

"I have one or two others, but I'm afraid they'll have to wait." He started the car. 

They drove back to town. 

Emma wasn’t certain what to expect as they pulled up in front of her apartment building. He jumped out and came around the car to open her door, handing her out onto the pavement like a latter day knight.

“Good night, Mrs. Peel,” he said, his hand still on hers. 

“Good night, Mr. Steed,” she replied.

Then he brought her hand up to his lips. It was such an odd, old-world gesture, and yet he did not make it awkward. The tingle that rushed up her body was unlike any she’d felt in a very long time. His mouth caressed her knuckles, the brush of stubble against her skin arousing, enticing. His fingers pressed firmly into hers, giving the palm the slightest amount of pressure. She could feel the curbed strength in his hand – the delicacy of touch blended with undeniable power. When his head rose, his eyes were dark.

“I am … very glad I met you,” he said. Was he also not just a little breathless?

“So am I,” she managed to respond.

He remained there on the pavement until she was inside the glass doors of her building. The elevator doors closed and he was lost from her sight. Emma Peel leaned against the door. She felt fourteen. She felt far older than fourteen.

The elevator opened and Emma walked down the long carpeted hall. She entered her apartment, dropped her keys and handbag on the side table and stood for a long moment, thinking. She took the card from her handbag. It could be a joke, an elaborate prank. A come-on. But she didn’t think it was.

She walked to the window and peered down. The Bentley still stood in front of the building, engine idling. No, John Steed was not like other men. But then, she never thought she was like other women. She watched him drive off down the wet London street and into the night.


End file.
